Speaker 1: The last lovely days of summer are upon us. When
I sit on the porch of a little white house
across the river from a marina, and I am grateful
that it's not my house, and I don't own a boat.
I'm a free man. Someone else gets to clean the gutters,
and I wanted no obligation to rev up the outboard
and take people out for a ride up the river
and back. I've been on several boat rides in my
long life, and several is enough. I sailed across the
Atlantic on the Queen Mary Too once, five days in
a hilton that vibrates hanging out with light headed people
in spangly clothes. The freedom to not do what you
don't like is basic in a free society. I resist hiking, boating, golfing, climbing.
I prefer porching. Summer goes against my nature, except when
a good thunder storm comes crashing and flashing in and
I observe divine wrath hurled down upon the wicked. It
satisfies the puritan in me. I appear to be a librum,
but down deep, I'm a man in a tall black
hat with a buckle on it. And now that the
Party of Lincoln, was formed to set black people free
from slavery, has become the Party of yellow golf Pants.
There isn't enough lightning to reform it. This all began
when I was a kid. Our house had scripture verses
on the walls, which made us odd, and I wanted
to keep this a secret. For example, thou shalt not
bear false witness. I enjoyed bearing false witness. I was
good at it. I loved books in which writers made
up stuff. But when the yellow golf Pants runs for
president on the basis of fictions and falsehoods, such as
that fact checkers have checked into episcopal rest homes, then
Puritanism starts to look good. Sitting here on the porch,
I look at the woman sitting ten feet away, whom
I love dearly, and she smiles and asks me, do
you notice something different about me? A question that strikes
fear in my heart. I don't want to say you
got your hair done if the correct answer is you
had your lower lip pierced and a large wooden disc
inserted in it. But I don't see a disk. And
she has two arms and two legs, and praise God,
she hasn't shaved one side of her head and dyed
the other side green. There is no tattoo on her arm.
I'm about to say, I notice how radiant you look,
but she puts a finger to her lips, and I
notice lipstick pale red. Very cool. It makes me think
of Catherine Hepburn, who used to live just up the
road from this little house. The school yar has begun,
and though I graduated long ago, school is never out.
It goes on and on. What Missus Molenbrock expected of
me when I was twelve years old, I now expect
of myself to work up to my potential, to engage
with the world. But the world passed me by long ago,
And in my old age I learned to appreciate small pleasures. Coffee,
the river, a toasted muffin with blueberry jan conversation. The
woman sitting next to me regales me with reminiscence of
her grandparents, whose porch this once was, And I love
her stories. I've heard enough of my own. She stands
to emphasize a point, and I hold out my arms
and she sits on my lap. My arms around her,
I hold her gently, not gravely or clutchingly, but meaningfully
two independent persons in fine alignment. When I was twelve,
I was a teacher's pet, so I was a target
for playground bullies. A boy told me my teeth were
green and rotten, and I believed him, and I stopped smiling,
and I believed that the Second Coming was imminent. And
though I was a Christian, I wasn't sure that God
realized that Brother Frank could preach a sermon that made
me feel like a war criminal. But you grow up
and experience the generosity of this world. Justice prevails, at
least it tries to. I got a good college education
on the cheap. The world is full of fascinating individuals
who were here for our appreciation. Highly educated people tend
to treat you with respect, which is rather stunning. Society
will try to do the right thing by you, and
this woman will accept my love. So what's your problem, mister?
Enjoy the day, Enjoy all of it. Just released a
Prairie Home Companion's fiftieth anniversary two CD set recorded live
at the Fitzgerald Theater. Garrison Keeler and the Gang celebrate
with music, sketches, and of course the news from Lake Wobegon.
Get to tales at Garrisonkeiller dot com.